


Smoke and Shotguns

by Alopex



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: M/M, poet!Bill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-13
Updated: 2014-09-13
Packaged: 2018-02-17 04:56:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2297339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alopex/pseuds/Alopex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is another fic inspired by Golden Girl by Black Flamingo so if you want a music mood, there you go.<br/>Not really sure what this is or how in character this is but yeah I hope ya'll like StanBill because I sure love me some Stanbill.<br/>Poet!Bill is my favorite Bill so yeah have fun kiddos</p>
    </blockquote>





	Smoke and Shotguns

**Author's Note:**

> This is another fic inspired by Golden Girl by Black Flamingo so if you want a music mood, there you go.  
> Not really sure what this is or how in character this is but yeah I hope ya'll like StanBill because I sure love me some Stanbill.  
> Poet!Bill is my favorite Bill so yeah have fun kiddos

There were two things that always seemed to hang in the air in Stanford's world, and they were tension and cigarette smoke. Both were vile, foul, oppressive, and detrimental to his health.

Bill, on the other hand, didn't particularly seem to think so, especially when it came to the latter of the two. Ever since he took on his corporeal form, he was addicted to both the narcotic and the vibe it gave off – nothing gave him more pleasure than watching the smoke curl into the air as he dragged on one slowly. Besides, it went perfectly with the black leather he had taken to wearing, since it added a nice touch to his perceived demeanor. He'd smoke them constantly, with no regard towards himself or others, always brushing it off since his body was temporary and he could shed it and replace it at any time. Stanford was of another mindset; it's not like he could just reset his youth.

And tension, oh, the constant tension. It drove Stanford out of his mind. Ever since his brother disappeared, his only company had been the demon, and it wasn't as if he particularly desired it. In fact, quite the opposite was true, as Bill would always invite himself over; 'always' was far from an exaggeration, since he accompanied Stanford at nearly all the hours of both day and night. As an introvert, this aggravated the man like nothing else, and it drove him to miss sleep and skip meals (though never a drink).

Bill, on the other hand, fed off of this tension. Nothing delighted him more than pestering the other man, teasing him, mocking him, doing anything except easing their relationship. It was simply something he did, something that was part of his existence, or so he told himself.

Truth was, he didn't really know, neither shallowly nor deep down, why he pursued Stanford in such a way.

Both parties were in the dark as to how this even began. How could you predict such an acquaintance, much less the actions of an otherworldly demon? Bill possessed far more power those days, enough to hold a physical form for long periods of time, but why he decided the best use of this was to constantly harass Stanford was a question without an answer. Perhaps it was a power fantasy, perhaps it was something far more intricate than that, but the truth remained that wherever Stan went, the demon would follow. He would accompany him to the liquor store, act obnoxious at the bar whenever Stanford tried to ease his nerves there, even went as far as interrupting his sleep constantly just for the sake of being a pest. And the problem was, Stanford could do nothing in his defense. Without the complete set of journals, he was powerless, and Bill was keenly aware of this small fact.

Soon enough, amidst the smoke and tension, a third key aspect crept into their lives.

Boredom.

Boredom permeated everything, sucking the drive out of both of them as they attempted to find means to live by and reasons to live for. This was quite a challenge in the tiny town they lived in, Bill having seen everything there was to offer and Stanford too paranoid to explore its depths without the trilogy of manuals in his hands (as the demon was a faulty resource for such an excursion).

And so, one late autumn evening found the two of them lounging in Stanford's room, the man absentmindedly glancing over a local newspaper as he sipped a glass of amber cognac, one of the very few things he splurged on, and the demon leaning against Stanford's bed, legs stretched out across the floor as he blew puffs of smoke into the air. Stanford glanced down at Bill, scowling.

"You're gonna stink up my entire room with your fucking Camel."

"As if it already doesn't smell like the ninth ring of Hell in here," Bill retorted, a grin playing on his lips. Stanford rolled his eyes, downing his drink before standing up to head to his bed. Unfortunately, given the late hour and his overwhelming exhaustion, he overlooked possible obstacles in his path, promptly tripping over the demon's spindly legs and falling right on top of him, along with banging his head on the bed frame.

"Oh, fucking DAMN it, Bill! How many times do you have to get in my way like this," Stanford yelled, rubbing his head as he tried to clear the stars from his mind.

"Did you know, Stanford, that you have things such as eyes, and self-awareness, and another cool thing called knowing to watch where you're going? It's a pretty interesting concept, I'd suggest you check it out in a first grader's code of conduct," the demon spat back. "I think you bruised my ribcage. That takes forever to fix. I've told you, healing magic is far from my strong points."

"Good. That'll teach you not to sprawl across my entire floor, you importunate light bulb!"

"'Importunate light bulb?' You're getting better with your insults, Stan!"

"Oh, shut up," Stanford groaned as he tried to get up. Bill had other thoughts, holding on fast.

"There, there," he cooed, his tone laced with mockery as he pat his back. "Someone's drunk and angry and hurt and probably a little lonely. It's ok, Bill is here."

Stan tried to pull away, without avail. "I'm not drunk _or_ lonely! With the way you always follow me around, if I was lonely, it would be a miracle!"

"Oh, no, Stanford. What you're thinking of is being _alone_. Lonely and alone are two very different things that you shouldn't mix up, that wouldn't be very healthy-"

"As if you know anything about health."

"-Besides, what use is there in lying about it? We both know exactly how you feel on that subject..." Bill trailed off, cupping Stan's chin in his palm. The man shook out of his touch, a chill running down his fine. It was a well-known fact that Bill could read minds better than he could hear people speak, but regardless of how much time they spent together, Stanford could never get used to his thoughts being read without his consent or control, especially his innermost fears, which he strove so desperately to hide. As if in response, Bill curled his arms around the man, pulling him in closer.

It wasn't the first time they had ended up in such a position, and it wasn't ever something intentional; there was always some sort of element of randomness within it. Well, random in that Stanford didn't particularly enjoy it (outwardly, at least) and would never so much as think about initiating anything, and that Bill couldn't ever properly foretell when such events would occur.

But here they were, sprawled quite awkwardly across the tiny floor, Stanford wrapped in the arms of the taller man, so exhausted from the day, no, his life, that his eyelids quickly started to grow heavy. Bill was surprisingly warm...

He shook the thought, trying in vain to clear his mind. No, that was too strange, even for him, even for this town.

"You've witnessed far stranger things," Bill answered his thoughts. "Why are you so perturbed by this?" He ran a hand through Stanford's hair as he whispered softly.

"Why don't you think about it," Stanford huffed, getting to tired to fight him off.

"What is there to think about it?" He paused momentarily before continuing. "It's midnight, and such feelings do abound..."

"Oh, enough of your poetry bullshit," Stan groaned.

"They make your chest ache, gods, they make you sore," Bill continued, ignoring him.

 

"Their flames don’t burn you like the gin you've downed,

Nor are they embers, stirring in your core,

But rather like a light bulb glowing faint,

Just bright enough to spark a little burst

Of thoughts quite unbefitting of a saint.

Though let me tell you – you’ve had thoughts far worse..."

 

Stanford remained silent, Bill's words hitting home. He knew – and this made him very uneasy – that his thoughts easily wandered to places they shouldn't, but he'd always managed to suppress any whimsy. Granted, it was so much more difficult with a mind-reading demon constantly by his side.

"Just relax. Here, this'll ease your nerves," Bill suspired, offering him his cigarette, but Stanford shook his head.

"Save your shitty cigarettes for yourself."

"No? Come on, try it," Bill dragged on the cigarette, then in a fluid motion tilted Stanford's chin up and pressed his lips against the man's. Stan gasped in mild surprise, and the demon took advantage of that, breathing out the vapor he was holding in.

Stan nearly choked from shock and smoke. Shotgunning had never been his thing.

"What the fuck, Bill?!" He cried, gasping. "I only smoke cigars, not the cheap shit you prefer! Holy _hell_ , that was disgusting."

Bill laughed under his breath. "Oh, calm down. As if your own sense of taste in tobacco products is exquisite. Let's get you to bed." He raised a palm up, lifting the two of them with his magic and dropping them on Stanford's bed. Stanford would have reached for the covers, but Bill still had him in a tight hold, and he was like a furnace anyways so blankets were mostly unnecessary. In fact, he passed out on the spot, too tired to protest one last time.

The demon rested his chin on the top of Stanford's head as he himself succumbed to the demands of his sleep-deprived human body, his eyelids closing on their own. "Good night, Stanford. Shall we meet in our mutual nightmares."

In the night outside, nature stood still, with the exception of the occasional rustle of leaves, stirred by a chilling, northern wind. A barn owl screeched in the distance, and in the town a car alarm wailed, but all this lay undiscovered by the slumbering townsfolk, too lost in their blissful dreams.

\--

Light poured in blindingly through the window as Stanford stirred. _Really need to get a proper set of curtains,_ he thought, squinting. As he opened his eyes, he realized he was still wrapped up in the demon's appendages, and momentarily panicked, trying to recall the events of last night. Remembering that nothing _too_ out of the ordinary occurred, he relaxed slightly, then tried to ease out of Bill's grip. Still asleep, the demon hugged him tighter.

"Let go of me, Bill," Stanford grumbled. 

"No, no," Bill mumbled through his sleep. Sighing, Stanford relaxed, deciding to wait until the demon woke up. Instead, he entertained himself by trying to recall his dreams but oddly enough he found himself unable to do so. Upon further introspection, he realized that aside from the beginning, the previous night was one of the most restful and refreshing he's had in weeks, months even. _Perhaps,_ he thought, _perhaps this isn't the most terrible thing that could happen._

_For now, at least._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah so I don't even remember why I wrote that scene w/ the poetry but I was glancing through some of my old stuff and it fit the fic so. Poet!Bill it is.


End file.
